“I thought you would have, Sergeant.”
The men saluted, for all that they were in civilian clothes, and went out.
There was nothing to do but wait. Traile fidgeted, but Stacey was impassive. Suddenly he smiled. It had occurred to him that, having learned from the newspaper item the name of the man he had attempted to strangle Sunday night, he could easily lay an information against him and proceed to arrest him—supposing he was sufficiently recovered to permit of arrest. Stacey smiled (he had a rather grisly sense of humor) because he could picture the horror on—what was his name?—Kraft’s brutish face when he saw his assailant himself come for him. But it was only a diverting fancy. Stacey did not follow it up. In the matter of retribution he thought Kraft had had his share.
“You’ll take my car, Captain—you can drive a Cadillac, can’t you?—and I’ll use my father’s,” Traile suggested.
“All right.”
In less than an hour a man reported with an address.
“You go after him, Lieutenant,” said Stacey calmly. “You’re more in a hurry than I am.”
Traile went joyfully.
Fifteen minutes later two more were announced to be located, and, as Stacey was on the point of getting into Traile’s car with Morgan and Isaacs (his escort), and the two men who had reported, still another name was brought in.
Stacey went after them. Two he got without difficulty, disregarding their cringing protestations of innocence with the same impassive disgust he had shown—except for one moment—toward the mob on Sunday night. The third, who was hiding in the back room of a saloon and was encouraged by the presence of companions, showed fight, until Stacey rapped him dispassionately on the head with the butt of his revolver. Stacey took his prisoners to the police station and returned to the house.